The words of the prophecy clung to Kaelen like a second skin: Child of forgotten name shall rise from shadow's trail. He was the child of shadows, but were those shadows cast by a divine curse or by the hands of men? As a historian, he knew that history is a story written by the victors. He decided it was time to read the original manuscript of his own life.
His quest took him not to Tharos's Forbidden Library, but to a place far more mundane and, in its own way, more truthful: the Royal Archives. It was a vast, cold repository of the kingdom's official memory, a place of ledgers, decrees, and records kept by men who valued ink and fact above all else.
He requested the annals from the year of his birth. The elderly archivist, a man whose spine had curved from a lifetime of bending over scrolls, gave him a curious, pitying look but complied. Even a forgotten prince had rights.
Kaelen was given a small, private study. For hours, he sifted through the official accounts. He found the Royal Proclamation announcing his birth. The language was dramatic, almost theatrical. It spoke of the Queen's sudden agony as the Blood Moon was devoured by shadow, of a difficult birth under an inauspicious sky, and of a child born "touched by the eclipse's shadow," leaving him bereft of the Drakemire fire. It was the story he had been told his entire life. The story the entire kingdom believed.
But a historian knows the public proclamation is never the full story. He kept digging. He requested the Royal Physician's private logs for that month. These were not for public view, but his princely status granted him access. The archivist hesitated before handing over the heavy, leather-bound book, its pages filled with the precise, clinical script of the court's chief healer.
Kaelen's hands trembled slightly as he turned to the entries for his birth week. The physician's account was starkly different.
'Her Majesty's labor began at dawn. It was long, as is common for a second child, but there were no unnatural complications. The child, a healthy male, was delivered in the sixth hour of the evening. Vigorous cries. Mother and child are stable.'
Kaelen's heart hammered against his ribs. Stable. There was no mention of a curse, no hint of magical interference. He read on, his eyes devouring the text. He found the entry from the next day, noting his mother had developed a fever—a common and tragic danger of childbirth. Her death two days later was documented as a medical tragedy, not a mystical sacrifice.
Then he found the final, damning piece of evidence. The physician had meticulously logged the exact time of birth. Kaelen, his mind racing, immediately requested the corresponding records from the Royal Astronomer. He unrolled the star chart for that fateful night.
The truth was there, written in the cold, mathematical language of the cosmos. The Blood Moon eclipse had reached its absolute peak, its deepest crimson shadow, a full hour after he had been born.
It was all a lie.
He sat back in his chair, the stone-cold reality washing over him. The curse was a fabrication. A brilliant, vicious piece of political theater. Someone had taken the tragic death of his mother and the convenient spectacle of a rare celestial event and woven them together to create an unshakeable narrative. A narrative that had defined his entire existence.
His mind, trained in political analysis, instantly sought the motive. Who benefited? Not his father, who was lost in grief. Not Vorian, who was just a boy. He thought back to the Royal Council of that era. The names clicked into place like tumblers in a lock. Chancellor Valerius, the current lord's father. Lord Commander Marius of House Marrowind. Both were fierce loyalists to the memory of the King's first wife, Vorian's mother. They had seen Kaelen, the son of a new, beloved queen, as a threat to their champion's succession.
So, they had neutered him at birth. They hadn't needed to use poison or a blade. They had used a story. They had branded him as cursed, broken, and untouchable, ensuring he would never be a rival to their chosen heir.
The weight of eighteen years of shame, of averted eyes and cruel whispers, evaporated from his shoulders. But it wasn't relief that filled the void. It was a rage so pure and so cold it felt like ice forming in his veins. They hadn't just slandered him. They had stolen his name, his identity, and the memory of his mother, twisting her tragic death into a mark of his own unworthiness.
This was no longer about survival. It was no longer about claiming a throne he wasn't sure he wanted. This was about reclamation. This was about vengeance.
Chapter End
Next: Chapter 9 - Shadows of the Past